Note: Apologies on the wild swings in blog posting time. I'm going to get back on the Tues or Wed posting schedule, just as soon as I'm not overwhelmed with deadlines and Celtic-Laker overtime disappointments. Pinky swear. 

The idea of meta is the whole idea of thinking about the fact that you're thinking about something. It means "about its own category." So what I do, because I write about writing, is pretty damn meta. But, apparently, not nearly meta enough. Because right now I'm-- as we mutually connect via the Webz-- doing a rewrite of my Boston Globe Magazine piece, and I kind of think it'd be a good idea to keep writing the blog as I'm editing and rewriting, keeping a commentary of those changes. I have no idea why I want to do it, but did Columbus have any idea what he was doing when he convinced the Spanish Queen or King or whomever to let him sail to India via a shortcut? Of course not. But Columbus was kind of a d**k like that.

Let's get to it:

First issue-- I've been looking for another word for flower for the past half hour. Nothing seems to do it, though. Inflorescence doesn't really work. Perennial, annual, blossom, bud, vine-- Jeez, Thesaurus.com-- have you no good word for me to work with?

Second Issue-- How much of this flower buyer's bio do I put in right here? I'm already way over on my word count, but someone needs to know that this Dutch dude wrote a complete and detailed guide to everything about the cultivation of roses for his "masterpiece", as he calls it. Well... I guess you guys know now. Spread the word!

Third Issue-- I just spent twenty minutes actively looking for ways to talk more about myself in the piece. I guess that's not an issue, more like a statement.

Fourth Issue-- I need to discuss "the hierarchy" of the company, and do it in the context of how the offices are set up in the design studio. Yeah, I know, I don't know what that really means either! I think a few more well placed "I observed"s will safely put that issue to rest.

Fifth Issue-- I need to describe something that happened in Holland, that I didn't actually see with my own eyes, and only heard about through lots of questions from a guy who speaks great English, but, you know, sometimes uses terms that confuse me, like "masterpiece" when he probably means "thesis". I'm also not sure I'm confident that the farmer in questions name is Gerard.

Fifth Issue, resolved-- It is Gerard!

Sixth Issue -- The hed and the dek (two more termz!) need work. The hed is the title and the dek is essentially a few lines explaining the essence of the story-- and both sound like they're blurbing a Lifetime movie, as they stand right now, which is unacceptable because I fancy myself edgy!!

...

I still have no ideas, even after spending 15 minutes looking through a Rhyming Dictionary. I instant message with the Big Cat and he comes back with: "The Leaning Flower of Pisa??" I immediately sign off.

Ok, I'm giving up. I need to sleep. So if anyone has any ideas about what I should title a piece that involves a flower traveling across the Atlantic, and being followed all through its entire life -- send your comment to my pager, and be sure and put in 911, so that I know it's important when I'm calling you back from my payphone.

Significantly less cracked out posts to follow. 

Rhythm of,
The Night

DeBarge

If you cared to notice, friends, last week I did(n't) accomplish two of my goals; one of which was to play Ice Hockey on Nintendo using the time-tested strategy of two fat guys, and two skinny guys on my squad, and the other was writing a sweet, sweet entry for this blog. Apologies need to be distributed according to weight, height, and comment capacity, but since I can't physically touch you, all I can try and do is touch your soul with this e-card.

Seriously though, that kind of absence is not something I'm proud of, and I don't plan on doing it again until the summer, when I can run nearly naked through the streets in a sunbonnet, sipping Dark N Stormy's out of a Camelbak, not draped in beaver pelt pajamas, and not listening to the weatherman use phrases like, "a white, wintery, altogether dreadful, dreadful day tomorrow."

This week is somewhat of a lull before an intense writing storm. I'm waiting for edits to come back on the Globe Magazine piece I complained about last time, I'm building up an interview list to strategically plan a Boston Mag piece coming out in May, and I'm actually ahead at my day job with Thrillist.

What I should do, of course, is take advantage of said lull to get in some desperately needed time with my novel re-write, but that just feels like it won't happen, mainly bc I'm so focused on other things right now that not only can I not see the forest for the trees, I can't even definitively say I see any trees. So where does that leave us, friends? 

I'll tell you exactly where it leaves us -- in just the right frame of mind to get our education on about some sweet journalism termzz!! Here's the deal: because I spent several thousand euros on an education in journalism, I regularly throw journalism shorthand into the mix of my daily conversations. Not only does this annoy the people trying to make my turkey wraps, but it makes me sound confusing, and possibly insane... which is why it's so damn fun! Now I know most of you smart, aesthetically pleasing, modestly well-off readers already know what these things are, but just in case you don't, let me break down a few of my faves so that you, too, can use your journalism shorthand to pick up potential love partners in hot clubs, or, better yet, social networking sites.  Added bonus: I'm experimenting with changing font colors!

TK: To Come, meaning more info will be added at a later date. I use this term at least seven times a day, mostly to signal to my editor that I'm too lazy to Google something. Popular usage: Casey lost his virginity when he was TK years old, which seems weirdly young.
Hilarious verbal usage: "I seriously don't know if I DVR'd The City, probably because I've had like TK beers."

Lede: Not to be confused with the Belgian municipality of the same name, the lede is the intro, or "lead" to a piece, and can be a straight newsy style telling of the biz at hand: hard lede; or a creative super awesome never-been-done-before move that puts you right into the heart of the story and immediately signifies to the reader that you spent money on post-graduate work, use the term "mettle," and enjoy Tom Wolfe's early journalism: soft lede. 
Popular usage: (often in a note to my editor) This isn't the best lede, but this is the one I wrote.
Hilarious verbal usage, usually following someone taking forever to get to the point of a boring story: Wow. You really buried the lede on that one, didn't you?!?

Nut Graf: One or more paragraphs that explain why exactly you're supposed to want to stop texting your cousin to read this story; a considerable source of angst when you really have no idea why you're writing a story, even after 4000 words and several expensed meals. Often shortened to "the nut."
Popular usage: (often in a note from my editor to me) Yes, I understand you think a rhino going to the bathroom is hilarious. I get that. But what is the nut of this piece, exactly? And no, James isn't going to expense your second trip to the Franklin Park Zoo.
Hilarious verbal usage: Um... nevermind.

Comments should be placed in an airtight container, and stored in a dry, safe setting.

That's Not My,
Name

The Ting Tings

The funny thing about this blog entry, friends, is that I shouldn't be writing it. I have a deadline that is two days past its expiration date, it is 11:35 PM at night, and I've just settled in to finally bang out the final piece to this story that I need to turn in before an editor I haven't really worked with in the past (new magazine!) decides that I'm not worth the (modestly!) spectacular and wisely worded self-deprecating jokes in the piece.

Perhaps the scarier thing is not that I need to switch over to Word and get cracking or I am seriously regretting the two drinks I had with dinner, but that my freelance schedule over the next month is downright frightening. I have agreed to do a Red Sox package due at the end of the month, I have a huge 4,000 word piece that's sort of been waiting in the wings all year that will be due end of February, I have tentatively agreed to do some sort of sitdown discussion piece about the dating, relationships, and the social scene in Boston, and all of this is in the next two(ish) months... And that's on top of my day job editing, writing, and researching daily pieces AND, most importantly, writing this lovely and vent-worthy blog. Whew. Until I re-read it, it felt really good to get that stress quantified.

But you know me, friends. I'm not really alive until I am bitching about the stresses surrounding my writing, an infliction that makes my girlfriend alternate between stressing for me, and actively looking for creative ways to disown me. But-- at least, I think-- the stress of the deadline invigorates my creativity. It gets me fired up. It makes me reach deep down inside and, um, write mostly because I have no other choice. So we've come to that point. And this is my plan: I am going to fire up some caffeine-heavy Twinings English Breakfast Tea.  I am going to slay like six cups of it. No milk. No sugar (substitute). Just f-ing straight. Whatever, I was in a frat. Then I'm going to write the Big Cat an email/e-card wishing him a happy birthday, but not in any sort of earnest manner, because we are male and in our 20s, and that would scare him into thinking I was terminally ill. Then I'm going to re-read where I left off, get confused, glance through my notes, and quickly play a game of Ms. Pac Man on my iGoogle page. Then I'm going to put some Vicks Vapo Rub on my nose, because it hurts from the negative 86 degree (Kelvin!) Boston weather. Then I shall start to write.

It's a system, friends. And it damn well (better!) work. Stay tuned to your regularly scheduled comments to see how this actually plays out. Now chillax to one of my top 7 favorite music videos of 1994, directed by that dude Michel Gondry, the French guy who did Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and that movie with Mos Def and Jack Black that I told everyone I wanted to see, even though I didn't.

It's Lucas With,
The Lid Off

Lucas

Apologies for the 24 hour delay, friends. I spent all of yesterday battling through a return to work that included responding to (roughly!) 23 work emails and (definitely less than!) 4 phone calls, and then made it a priority to attend the redesign party for Boston Magazine. After TK years (eight? thirty?), BoMag totally redesigned itself, and threw a party celebrating that fact, which included samplings of foods from a ton of ridiculously upscale restaurants around Boston -- including a butter soup from No. 9 Park, which satisfied my caloric needs for 2009. Pathetically, that's my excuse.

But enough about my eating habits. January -- an underrated candidate for worst weather'd month of the year in Boston -- is the time when people sit inside and reflect about how they're going to do things differently outside. I have 19 goals for the newest year. Three(ish) involve writing:

1. Finish the d*$% book. We don't need to talk about this. This needs to happen. This needs to happen soon. This needs to happen so my life can progress and not resemble a particularly extensive writing version of Groundhog Day. I think Thomas the Tank Engine said it best when he said, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can... buuuttt my engine is kind of tired due to my other jobs, and I definitely don't dig getting up early, especially when I'm wearing these cashmere socks."

2. Put a story in a prominent national magazine. WD aside, I have pretty much remained a regional magazine writer for the last five years, content to sit on the beanbag chair of comfort, zoning out with the blinds shut and my iHome (Christmas present!) set to that catchy version of "Devil Town" from the third season of Friday Night Lights. No more. All I ask this year is one story -- one solid story in a national mag. That's all. Just some sort of forward tilt there. Frankly, I don't understand why it hasn't happened yet, especially with all the Sweet Query Letters I've showcased on this blog.

3. Get my a$$ promoted. See how I put those dollar signs in place of the s's? That's because promotions mean mo' money (also, we're vaguely admonished for swearing) and it means you're doing something right. I guess. I wouldn't actually know, seeing how this is my first full year of gainful and traditional(ish) employment, but I think that's the gist of that Rich Dad, Poor Dad book.

That's it. Three simple, yet powerful goals for the year that I will celebrate my tenth reunion with my high school class -- the first actual reunion where people sort of look different, have real jobs, and aren't even embarrassed that they no longer remember which superlative you won.

Anyway, this is not all about me. It's 78% about me. The other 22% needs to be filled with your own writing, personal, work, or pop culture goals for the 20th anniversary of the first time I heard a New Kids on the Block song. Donny D's on the back up, indeed.

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You spoil me.

I was living in,
a Devil Town

Glen Hansard

There is an article in the NY Times from December 5 about the troubles people face in book clubs. Click here to read it.   And click here to watch Young MC bust a move.

...Part of me wanted to make that my entire entry, just for the awkwardness, but that part of me is a jerk, frankly, and I wouldn't really do that to you, friends. You know that. Anyway, the article talks all about issues faced when in a book club. The nut graf is this: Yes, it’s a nice, high-minded idea to join a book group, a way to make friends and read books that might otherwise sit untouched. But what happens when you wind up hating all the literary selections — or the other members? Breaking up isn’t so hard to do when it means freedom from inane critical commentary, political maneuvering, hurt feelings, bad chick lit and even worse chardonnay.

The article goes on to cite a number of women who left their book groups for various reasons (not reading the types of books they liked, not being allowed to talk about politics, only talking about politics, discussions of poopy diapers overtaking anything else, etc), but also talks about how the number of groups (which stands, apparently, somewhere between 4 and 5 million) tend to increase during hard economic times, most likely due to the solidarity and free-ish wine. 

But why are we still talking about that when we can just as easily talk about me?

I, friends, have never been a part of a book club. Some of the editorial staff at Boston Magazine have an appealing group that they call book club, but it involves magazine articles and leaving work early on a Friday to drink. And all the other ones I know about (two, actually) are girls-only, and unlike that guy who ended up suing so he could go to Wellesley College and document the orgies for Rolling Stone, I have no motivation to interrupt their single-sex solidarity.

As for the more important question: "Kevin, would you even want to join a book club if one was made available to you?" I remain balanced precariously on the non-electric part of the fence. One could argue that I just spent the last three years of my life in a high-minded $30K a year book club that also involved writing, and I certainly don't miss the infighting, and the vicious passive aggression, and that harrowingly angry young lady who told me she couldn't read my stuff anymore bc I "kept doing the same not-funny bulls***", but I do miss that rare class when everyone actually got along, and the talks would be productive, and the points would be thoughtful, and everyone would retire to The Tam post-class to speculate about who was sleeping with who and lose to a group of Trivia Night ringers clearly using some sort of web-phone.

But most importantly, where, friends, do you fall on the book club debate? Are you in a club? Do you like it? Do you non-like it?  Is there a particularly compelling anecdote that will serve as a great example of your opinion and is shorter than the average Tom-based comment (jokes, Tom, just jokes)?

If so, please place your comment in the overhead bin with the wheels sticking out, as to give other commenters room. We've got a very full flight this evening.



It's Off To The,
Principal's Office You Go

Young MC (Again)

History has shown that periodicals like to ask authors, "how long did it take you to write this book?" and the answers are startlingly different, ranging from "twenty two years" to "two consecutive taxi rides." Preempting the obvious fact that someone somewhere is going to want to profile me very soon and going to need this information for filler when the body starts to lag, here's a little timeline breaking down the birth of my novel, from conception to, you know, whatever happens after that:

May 2003: During a moderately alcohol-influenced deep conversation with an English Major Senior Week of college realize that I should write a book about "like, college, but obviously deeper than that." Tell her that. Seriously.

July 2003: Said English Major calls me from Columbia Publishing School, or whatever it's called, and I reiterate my need to write a novel. "My life goal," I may have called it. "So... I'm thinking the main character's dad has to die because that makes it deeper, right?" I ask. "You know the sadness and what not?" EM doesn't answer me directly.

September 2003: Bored with my grad school homework, start writing down some crazy introduction in second person, and randomly creating a fictional college. Name it after my favorite college basketball player that never did anything post college, Chris Kingsbury. Write sixty-ish pages in three days. Feel triumphantly productive. Don't touch the book again for almost exactly two years.

September 2005: MFA program starts. Take Writing the First Novel class. Homework is to... write. the. first. novel. Start haphazardly "mapping" my book.

October 2005: Realize that I'm embarrassed by that convo I had in July 2003. Finally.

December 2005: Have produced another 60ish pages, 13 of which are coherent. Tire of critiques that begin, "It's funny but the characters never really do anything..." Bitch about my "art" at the grad school pub with a bi-sexual short story writer from Montana who has never ridden a subway or heard of Cosi. Find both of these things extremely satisfying.

May 2006: Another 50 pages written, probably 8 of which are salvageable, giving me 21 solid pages of work. Am writing through the "dreaded middle lull"... barely can look at the book each day. Doesn't help that my social life is in chaos, and I live by myself in what could honestly be deemed a retirement home in South Boston. Throw myself an infinite number of pity parties, and get really into watching seasons of The West Wing. Cry when Rob Lowe leaves.

August 2006: Write 30 pages on my own at my father's house in SoCal. Actually pretty good stuff. SoCal makes everything better. Plus, I don't have to pay for my meals.

December 2006: Tell people that I have a full draft written when, in fact, I have 150 pages, 30% of which is strictly filler. Get the "Jack Black 3 Pack" DVD set in my stocking.

January-April 2007: Take a leave of absence from school, and travel around Eastern Europe with the Big Cat. Eat guac in Slovakia, see infinity cats in Istanbul, and "Czech Me Out" tees in Prague. Buy a dream journal. Write an extensive short story. Actually start editing the novel on long train rides when the Big Cat abruptly puts in his headphones while I'm telling a story.

May-July 2007: Spend all my time telling everyone how "they can't understand the complexities of life until they've been to Slovakia." No time for writing!

August 2007: Go out to SoCal again, on a mission from Twain, and have the writing week of my life, banging out 90 odd solid to good pages of work, am completely fired up for the semester, plan on finishing the book by October and strictly re-writing during my final semester.

October 2007: Hmmmm. Yeah, um, that was a little optimistic.

December 2007: Finish the semester with 40 odd pages written. Can see the finish line but refuse to walk across it, probably because I faked straining my writing hamstring. Get Friday Night Lights in my stocking.

April 2008: Oh man! Remember my Thesis freak out? (shudder) Literally writing non-stop revisions and 2000 word daily overhauls for a month straight... subsisting on a diet based almost-exclusively of Honey Bunches of Oats, which I haven't eaten since.

May 2008: Thesis defense. Novel (kind of) finished! All I need are about two solid weeks to revise and then it's off to my agent and certain literary fame. Plus, my dad knows the dude who wrote Two and a Half Men, and he can definitely get me a movie deal-- damn straight-- he knows Charlie Sheen!

Late May 2008: Get a job.

November 2008: All I need are about two solid weeks to... (sigh).

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Love,
Lockdown

Kanye West


 

The weather in Boston has finally re-arrived at cold, a situation that always feels like it's right around the corner, even in July when I'm writing outside in my sports bra and cut off jean shorts summer bathrobe. As I type, I can almost see my breath, and I have no idea how to work the heating system in my apartment other than yelling at my roommate, who is not here. Perhaps I should rummage for firewood, like they (probably) do in Ansel Adams photos.  

Moving on, I get mediabistro.com's Revolving Door newsletter partially because I like to know the gossip about who is moving around in the small, small world of journalism, and partially because I feel like I need to get mediabistro's newsletter, to stay "in the know" when other people ask me about who is moving around in the small, small world of journalism.

Here is a semi-related convo I had this week with my friend Casey:
Me:You see the dude from Valleywag got canned, and is now just writing for Gawker?
Casey: No.
Me: Oh. But that sucks, right?
Casey: (long pause) Is this the reason you called me?

Anyway, more of my point is aimed at the fact that the traditional media world is a sad sight to behold right now. Every newsletter talks of tons and tons of cuts, and most of the quotes sound exactly like this example from the last letter, but with less religious holiday references:  "CondeNet, Conde Nast's Internet division, let go "dozens." The parent company also cancelled Christmas."

I had no idea companies could even give a thumbs up or down or holidayz! But in this sad climate, with traditional jobs being hacked and tightened and squeezed down into moderately difficult yoga poses, one has to look on the bright side or one could stay down in that position forever, and that can't be great for your back.

I, for one, realize I'm extremely lucky to have found a writing job with a company that utilizes the World Wide Netz and is actually growing, and also lucky enough to be able to complain about these things in my own blog, and complain about my own pieces in the dying art of the long form magazine. In fact, I probably shouldn't complain ever, but it would be boring if I was always so upbeat and cheerful and full of positive emoticons, and you wouldn't read my work, or my fake poems, or occasionally participate in Commenting Adventures;) And since you asked, my feeling on the changing world of writing and journalism is this: there are always going to be people who love reading, and there will always be people needed to put those words in front of them, and we just need to understand that--like any job-- adapting with the technology is part of the game, baby. More jobs are going to move to the 'Net. Big expensive magazines with big expensive ad buys to fill their pages just won't make sense, like purchasing a super-nice VCR to play your Blu-Ray discs. And the magazines that do stay afloat and remain financially viable will figure out ways to deliver info that people don't want to get on the web, like thoughtful step-back analysis and clever, semi-reported narratives about high school... 

And please, don't mistake my candor for some sort of gleeful repositioning. This sucks for me. I love magazines and newspapers and other paper-based readery. I have 14 subscriptions that I know about, and that doesn't count the Blender that gets shoved into my mailbox every so often, piggybacking onto my real mags like an annoying, spoiled preschooler. But just because I love something doesn't mean that I can't see it changing. And it'd be stupid and pointless to just wax on about the good ol' dayz... and not only because I'm 27.  I just think we're going through a painful correction, and it's going to get worse before it gets better, but in the end we're all clever, adaptable creatures, and we'll figure something out. And if we don't, we can probably just join Kim Kardashian over at Tom's place and start work on next years pumpkins. After all, I'm pretty sure he mentioned something about sodas and snacks.

Apologies for the elephantine ramble. Drop your name in the Comments to be entered into a drawing for the safe return of my ephemerality.

I find it hard,
to concentrate

Red Hot Chili Peppers